


Encounters

by DreamingTheMelody



Series: Tomarry-Harrymort Ficlets and Drabbles [1]
Category: Harry Potterh
Genre: AKA poorly disguised smut, Alternate Universe, Biting, Ficlet, I don't even know anymore, Kissing, M/M, Mild Self-Hatred, POV First Person, Porn, Sad, Sexual Content, Slash, handjobs, inspired by a song, just take it away, male slash - to be precise, vague power dynamics
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-28
Updated: 2016-05-28
Packaged: 2018-07-10 16:49:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,917
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6996451
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DreamingTheMelody/pseuds/DreamingTheMelody
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>I couldn’t help but detest what he reduced me to. The need for his touch was an all-encompassing desperation, and despite knowing that I would never have all of him, I couldn’t help but crave what he did give me: his hands, his lips, his domination and his control. I was a high-strung addict, he was my only possible supplier, and we dealt in the business of sexual favors and psychological power plays.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Encounters

**Author's Note:**

> I woke up at four in the morning, had the strongest urge to listen to Nine Inch Nails' Sin, and an extremely rough draft of this was the result. It was a lot more smutty, a lot shorter, and a lot less presentable. So naturally, I fixed it up when I should've been looking up apartments to visit for an outing the next day. Ah procrastination, you fickle mistress. 
> 
> I don't like the idea of spoiling things via tags, so the only thing I'll say is that some of you might find one of the implied themes to be a bit... upsetting? Read with a small amount of caussion, I suppose. It shouldn't be too bad though.
> 
> Please don't hesitate to tell me what you think; it's my first foray into fanfiction, ever, actually. Any comments would make my heart flop! Even if just to say: Melody, your tense fucking sucks, my heart will probably still give a mighty leap at your helpfulness! 
> 
> I'm getting back into writing (finally), and have a bunch of Tomarry/Harrymort ficlets upcoming (maybe). If you like my writing style, you can def subscribe - and I even give you permission to stalk me! I'm DreamingTheMelody on just about everything, so uh. 
> 
> Yeah just read this thing.
> 
> Disclaimer: I own nothing that I... don't.

He was rough. 

His left hand tangled in the short strands of my hair; his lips bruising and attacking as they pressed forcefully against mine. His tongue was precise in its movements: expertly curling around mine and sliding in and out from between my lips in a parody of love-making – or it would have been, if not for the fact that it was almost brutal in its relentlessness. 

He bent me backwards; my back was supported by his forearm. His body caged me in, and as much as he made me feel like I was out of control – like I had absolutely no power at all – I utterly loved it. He was an assault on my senses that I couldn’t begin to put into words: a tornado in his ferocity, a scalpel-wielding surgeon in his precision, and every nip of his teeth at my pulse point and flick of his nail against my nipple seemed to heighten every single sensation he evoked in me. 

He reached down between us, his hand landing on my hardening cock. He stroked me through my boxers, and the pleasure was so poignant that it felt almost painful. I wanted him. I wanted more of his hands – his fucking torturous oh-so-agonizingly enticing hands – and more of his tongue against my skin, and more, more, more – so much more that I knew that he wouldn’t even deign to give me. 

I had grown accustom to his restrictions, however; not being able to have all of him was only one of the many. God knew that the sex wasn’t even nearly the entire reason why I did this, even if it was one of the perks. No, it was the loss of control that being with him afforded me. Those were arguably extremely tainted justifications, but no one could ever claim that this relationship – if it could be called that – that existed between us could ever be pure, after all. 

There was a healthy degree of manipulation on his part; I knew that his own enjoyment came from seeing me a wonton thing – a broken record in my demands for him. He loved seeing me like this – a writhing helpless jumble of nerves and seemingly never-ending erogenous zones under his talented hands – and I knew it wasn’t healthy for me. Yet the feelings that resulted from being so blatantly used only seemed to run together with the lust and the self-loathing and the high from submitting to a different kind of high to form a bittersweet sort of concoction. 

“God, please,” I panted, my hands coming up to clench on his shoulders. My hips flexed forward involuntarily against his hand, a sure-fire way of making him stop with his pleasurable torture – something I had stupidly forgotten in my delirium. I expelled air from between my parched lips in the form of an anguished sort of groan as I dug my nails into his pristine suit jacket. “Please,” I groaned again. “I need…” 

“Need what?” he asked me, his lips lowering to brush against my neck in what could have been mistaken as an affectionate gesture. 

“I need you,” I breathed, my tone equal parts plea and demand. 

“You need me to do what, Harry?” he crooned, his breath fanning across my neck in gentle puffs as he spoke. “What is it that you–“ he stopped here, taking the opportunity to flick his tongue against my pulse before he continued “–would like me to do?” 

“Don’t play games,” I snapped at him. He gave me a patiently amused sort of look, and after a moment’s hesitation, I took a shaky breath before continuing – my voice roughened by lust and something else. “You know what I want. I… Just. God. Please. Let me come.” 

He let out a throaty chuckle – the one that I always seemed to draw from him when I catered to his whims like this. I purposefully kept my eyes averted from his face; I hated to see the self-satisfied smirk that he made trademark in these situations. It was hard enough to submit to him in any sort of capacity, and the smugness that he emanated from just me doing so certainly didn’t help matters. 

When things got like this – when his self-satisfaction was suffocating in its tangibility – I couldn’t help but detest what he reduced me to. The need for his touch was an all-encompassing desperation, and despite the fact that I knew he’d never fuck me per another one of his unspoken restrictions, I couldn’t help but crave what he did give me: his hands, his lips, his domination and his control. I was a high-strung addict, he was my only possible supplier, and we dealt in the business of sexual favors and psychological power plays. 

Yet just like I had come to know his restrictions, he had grown to learn mine. Just like I had somewhat of an inkling with regards to why he participated in this… arrangement, I knew he at least had somewhat of an idea that I needed this. I needed to be able to submit to someone – to relinquish control when I never could, but that didn’t mean that I had entirely lost my pride in the process. 

It was for this reason – I presumed – that he respected my limits. He could have flaunted it in my face that I gave into him, but all he did was return his lips to my neck. I felt the tiniest flick of his tongue as he tasted my skin, and the contrast between it and his soft breaths were enough to make my body involuntarily tense once more. 

I knew that his sexual gratification came from seeing me like this. I knew that he wouldn’t let me touch him – not where it counted, at least. I knew that he would never let himself come when he pleasured me, but I didn’t know why. The self-satisfaction that he exuded when it was all said and done sometimes made me feel like he probably didn’t even have to, but his resistance seemed… unnecessary, almost. It wasn’t like he benefited from his abstinence, and I definitely knew that he wanted me. The press of his dick against my hip was testament enough to that. 

He eventually pulled away from me and directed me to turn away from him. He slowly led me to stand against one of the barren walls in his bedroom. He grabbed hold of my hands, the palms of his resting on the tops of mine as he pressed them against the wall in front of me. 

Stepping forward so that he was pressed flushed up against me – his cock resting between my ass cheeks – he removed both of his hands from mine. One of his freed arms moved to curl around my torso – his hand splaying possessively over the flat planes of my stomach – while his other hand settled on my hip. He leaned forward to nip at the back of my neck. 

“Beg for it,” he murmured against my skin, but I was too mindless with anticipation, with lust, with want. My mind was too far gone for me to barely even comprehend what he was even asking of me. 

“Beg for it,” he growled into my ear, before taking a sliver of my skin between his teeth and biting down almost painfully. My body gave a great jerk against him, but he just stepped closer, his hands pressing me against him. 

“Please,” I murmured, as he began to soothe the marked skin with his tongue. “Do it please I want you to touch me, I need your hand on my cock, please please—“ 

The hand on my stomach reached down into my boxers, and I was lost to the feeling of his skin on mine – the feel of his fingers and palm forming a tight fist around me. I kept my hands firmly in place against the wall, and braced my weight against them – pushing my hips forward so I could feel the grip of his hand slide further along my length. 

He started to increase the pace of his hand; the movement of his arm against my side looked like a blur from my half-lidded eyes. I could hear the slight click-click-click noise of his palm brushing against my foreskin, and I could feel nothing, was nothing – more than the lust in my blood and the fire in my body and the pounding fucking pounding heartbeat in my ears and the gasping broken eulogy of ‘God yes just like that I want it need this more more more’ that came rushing through my parted parched lips. 

He straightened slightly, the hand that was on my hip making a slow journey up the side of my torso as he did so. I could feel goosebumps break out across my skin as he gently caressed my shoulder – a stark contrast to the harsh movements of his other hand against me. Brushing his fingertips from the top of my shoulder to the back of my hand, he slid them through the spaces of my fingers on the wall. 

He pinned my hand beneath his, and I could feel his breath return to the back of my neck. The anticipation of what he was going to do next made me release an involuntary groan of desire. 

He tilted his head at a slight angle and followed that with a brush of his lips against my skin. Every second that I waited, every teasing puff of air that fanned across the top of my spine simply added to my feelings of expectation. I bowed my head forward to press my forehead against the wall, bearing my neck completely to him. 

“Come-“ he began, his breath fanning over my exposed skin as he formed the word, “-for-“ he continued, before his tongue flicked out to taste my skin on the knot at the top of my spine, “-me, Harry,” he finished, before sucking a fold of my skin between his teeth, and biting down. Hard. 

It was my undoing. The friction of his hand against my cock, the press of his own hardness against my ass, the knowledge that he was marking me, truly leaving his mark on my skin – something I would never allow anyone else under the best of circumstances – combined with the low, purring, almost reverent way in which he murmured my name… It set off a primal reaction in me. 

My fingers tightened around his as I arched my spine – trying to get more of his hand which was in front of me, or his mouth on my neck… I wasn’t sure which, and with a hitched breath and a drawn-out groan of his name, I came. 

* * *

I would have always chosen to avoid the end of our encounters, if it were ever possible. Things always ended like this – me spent under his hands, my softening erection a blatant reminder of what events had transpired. I always felt such a profound sense of shame, of confusion, of embarrassment, and a tempered but no less real amount of self-loathing. 

When I looked around the room – my mind holding a new clarity that those emotions conjured in me, my first thoughts always seemed to be the same ones. I could definitely understand why Tom’s other unspoken rule was never the bed. As self-destructive as this might be, as forbidden and cruel as we could get, he did have his limits. The bed wasn’t only his, after all.


End file.
